Anything But Fine
by The General G of K
Summary: 4 times Mal and Inara were civil toward each other, and one time they were honest
1. Chapter 1

**Anything But Fine**

_By: The General_

**Pairing: **Mal/Inara  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Firefly_/_Serenity_ or any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon, Tim Minear, Mutant Enemy, etc. If they're willing to part with Cap'n Tight Pants, I would be more than willing to take him off their hands. Or Jayne. I'm just sayin'. The title comes from a beautiful song by ZOX, which I just felt was so Mal/Inara.  
**Description:** 4 times Mal and Inara were civil toward each other, and one time they were honest.  
**Rating:** PG-13, for adult situations and futuristic swearing  
**TG/N:** It wasn't until last year that I finally discovered the brilliance that is _Firefly_. For some reason, I'm always coming into Whedon shows at least five years too late. But in any case, I became completely enthralled with the 'verse and the characters, specifically the UST between the captain and the space hooker. Every scene the two of them shared, my heart just cried out, "DO SOMETHING!" And because the BDM did NOTHING, I repeat, NOTHING to satisfactorily put a resolve of any kind to their relationship, it remained up to me to write one for them. This was supposed to be in one installment, but the parts turned out longer than I expected, so I'm just going to upload each vignette to its own chapter. Takes place intermittently throughout the series. This is my first _Firefly_ fic, so I really hope you all enjoy it.

_i. that one time in the beginning_

It hadn't even been a week, and already he regretted taking in Inara Serra as a passenger—or tenant, really—on _Serenity_.

_His_ ship, by the way. Not hers. Just in case that needed clearin' up for anyone who wasn't too understandable 'bout the concept.

Particularly, _her_.

He had gone beyond the call of duty to be polite to her, or so he had thought. He'd given her free roam of _Serenity_, had offered her any of the food stock in the mess, had allowed her to freely conduct her business on whatever planet they landed on. Basically, he had been the perfect host.

So this blatant . . . _usurpation_ made no ruttin' sense!

That was _his _chair. Not _hers_.

"Good morning, sir," Zoe greeted over her cup of tea as Mal stalked into the mess. She set her cup on the table, an unusual smirk playing at her lips, and proceeded to stab a block of protein with her fork. "You appear to be in an unusually pleasant mood."

Mal just glared at his first mate, his annoyance steadily growing as her smirk evolved into a full blown smile.

Jayne, who hadn't picked up on the sarcasm, snorted in disdain from across the table. He absentmindedly twirled his knife around in his free hand. "What're you talkin' about, Zoe?" he asked, mouth nearly full with food. "The Cap'n don't look pleasant-like. What's amatter, Mal? Patience shoot you again or somethin'?"

"I—What? No!" he finally decided to be an appropriate response. Or at least, an available one. "Why does everyone just assume it's got somethin' to do with me gettin' shot? That happened a very long time ago."

Both Jayne and Zoe ignored him, and began laughing quietly among themselves. Mentally, he reminded himself to start docking their pay some next job they got. He had just begun to tally by how much when Inara turned around in her seat—_his _seat, gorramit—and spoke. "Good morning, Captain. Is there something wrong?" she wondered.

Somethin' about her sudden inclusion—whether that initial smile, the soothing tone of her voice, or the way her eyebrow arched perfectly, like a facial question mark—threw him off his guard, and usually when that happened, he started gettin' honest. Sometimes it made things go the opposite of well. Like the situation with Patience, for example.

"Yer sittin' . . . that's _my_ chair," he admitted, sounding slightly put out and annoyed at the same time. He couldn't help but notice that he sounded a mite more whingeful than he'd intended.

Inara's face fell. "Oh, I didn't realize . . . I could move—" She began to get out of her chair.

But Zoe clamped her hand around the companion's slender wrist, nonverbally communicating that she should stay right where she was.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Zoe assured Inara with that smile, her eyes never left Mal. "I'm sure the Captain don't mind sitting elsewhere today, do you, sir?"

Fury seemed to clamp his mouth shut as Mal found he couldn't mutter any response. He felt the muscle in his jaw throb in irritation. What was so ruttin' difficult about the concept 'Mal's—the _captain's_—Chair?' Never figured he'd have to put his name on the ruttin' thing, but in light of this unfortunate new development . . .

"_Sir_?" This time, more pointed.

It took everything in him for Mal not to sigh out loud in angered defeat. Instead, he took to mumbling his way to the other end of the table, and collapsed into the open chair, arms crossed over his chest. Zoe was still smilin' when she redirected her attention back to Inara, carrying on their conversation from earlier, and Jayne continued laughing to himself, muttering something to the effect of, "Always gets all titchy-like when Patience shoots 'im, like he's on the gorram rag or somethin'."

Mal, content in his seething, chose to ignore both Jayne and Zoe, settling instead on glaring angrily across the table at _Serenity_'s newest resident. Didn't help matters much that when she caught him starin' from across the way, she smiled in such a way that made him _almost _forget why he was mad in the first place. Or even how to breathe.

He shook the fog off. Gorram woman had no respect for a captain's right to seats.

That was _his_ ruttin' chair, gorramit.


	2. Chapter 2

**TG/N: **This takes place before the beginning of the series has occured. My sincerest apologies for updating so slowly. Please review.

* * *

_ii. that one time he walked into her shuttle unannounced_

"So have you ever had two guys fight over you before?" Kaylee asked, craning her neck to see Inara's reaction.

A slight blush crept onto her face, but Inara managed to recover with an expertly executed eye roll. "Kaylee, if you don't stop moving around, I won't be able to finish your hair."

The mechanic managed a hasty "Sorry" before adding tentatively, "Well, have you?"

Inara chuckled, the memory involuntarily replaying front and center in her mind. She continued brushing Kaylee's hair. "Unfortunately, yes. It's . . . an occupational hazard of being a companion."

"A haz—" Inara firmly steadied Kaylee's head with both of her hands, stopping any type of movement. Kaylee muttered another apology before trying again. "A hazard? Havin' two guys fight over you is so romantic! All the fightin', an' the manliness, an' the fixin' up afterward of the manliness, what with all the bruises an' all."

Inara laughed, grabbing a ribbon off the nightstand to hold Kaylee's hair in place. "In theory, it might sound that way, but in reality it was actually quite frightful. And annoying," she added dryly as an afterthought.

"Well, don't just leave me in suspense like that!" Kaylee insisted, turning around entirely when Inara gave her the go ahead. "Tell me what happened."

"Actually," Inara insisted, "it might be better if I showed you what happened."

She plucked her sword out of its sheath, walked over to the entrance of the shuttle, and cleared her throat. "One of the men," she began, turning to face Kaylee, "was a rich, oil baron on Persephone named Perseus Crane. He was attractive enough, but his table manners were atrocious. Had I known about that earlier, I never would have taken him as a client in the first place."

Kaylee giggled, knowing full well how Inara reacted around Jayne's eating habits.

"The other man, Harold Gragg," Inara continued, tossing her foil from one hand to the other, "was the CEO of the Blue Sun Corporation. Not exactly the most attractive man, but he was sweet and charming, and incredibly well mannered."

"Get to the good point, Nara!" Kaylee begged, placing her head in the cup of her hands. "What happened next?"

Inara smiled at the mechanic's impatience. "Well, what happened was Harold wanted me to stay with him on New Trenton, but Perseus wanted to keep me on Persephone with him. When he found out Harold wanted the same thing, he became furious and challenged the other man to a duel."

Kaylee made a squeal of excitement. "I ain't never seen one of those b'fore. Are they as romantic as the pictures make 'em out to be?"

Inara snorted in derision, or at least would have had her training not been an issue. As it were, she let out a short laugh. "If by romantic you mean bloody and completely barbaric, then yes."

"So who won?" Kaylee wondered, possibly even more excited after Inara's description. "Or did they end up killing each other?"

"Well, they ended up fighting for a long time—approximately forty-five minutes—and, admittedly, it was quite dramatic and entirely embarrassing," she admitted. "But eventually, Perseus managed to pin Harold to the floor"—she demonstrated with her own foil—"and said in a very menacing fashion, 'You, sir, are a disgrace to all of humanity.' Then—and I didn't catch everything because I could not bring myself to watch a man be killed on my behalf, but I did manage to catch the first part—he lifted his sword like this, and—"

"OWW, _gao yang jong duh goo yang_!"

As she pulled her sword up above her shoulder to demonstrate what had happened, Inara accidentally elbowed the Captain, who chose that unfortunate moment to barge into her shuttle unannounced. Judging by the horrific yet distinct _crunch_ of bone on bone, Inara could tell the Captain would be in a fair amount of pain."

"Cap'n!" Kaylee cried at the same time as Inara gasped, "Mal!"

"What the _hell_ are you doin'?" Mal demanded as he pinched the bridge of his nose. A thin stream of blood poured down his face. The whole left side of his face began to throb, and his entire head suddenly began to hurt somethin' fierce.

"Nara was just tellin' me 'bout two guys fightin' over her 's all," Kaylee explained in a quavering voice. The Captain momentarily reveled in the fact that his ship's mechanic seemed to find him frightful.

"Yeah, _showin's_ more'n like it," he protested in outrage, his voice nasally as he continued to pinch his nose.

Inara carefully set her foil back in its place before hurrying to the Captain's side. She gently brushed her fingers over the bruise that was already forming under his right eye.

"Oh, God," she breathed, guilt crashing at her in waves. "Are you alright? I am so sorry!"

For a moment, Mal stiffened, his breathing shallow, but shortly after, he shrugged out from under her touch and batted her hands away. "I'm fine; quit babyin' me," he grumbled, sounding more dangerous to cover up for his stammering heartbeat. "And you—" He stabbed an accusatory finger at the ship's mechanic. "Don't you have an engine or somethin' ship-y to be looking over?"

Immediately, Kaylee looked guilty. "Yes, sir, Captain. I'm on my way, Captain. Sorry, Captain," she finished lamely before scurrying off, presumably, toward the engine room. Mal made to follow her, but Inara took hold of his arm, halting him in the process.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, feelings of guilt and sorrow still mingling.

The Captain looked at her as if the answer to her question was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm going to the medical bay, see if I can't find somethin' to clean myself up with," he explained to her slowly. And here he thought she was smart.

A new emotion made its way into Inara's mix: annoyance. She could barely contain the eye roll that surfaced. "Don't be ridiculous, Mal," she admonished, "I can clean you up right here. Take a seat over there, and I'll get the supplies."

Mal smirked—or at least, he meant to, but it hurt too much—as he watched her grab a cloth, some bandages, and a pale blue porcelain bottle which he assumed was filled with some salve or another. He flinched, from the pain, but said through a pinched nose anyway, "Why're you so helpful and pleasant-like all of a sudden? Wouldn't have anything to do with all that pent up guilt from hittin' me like you did, would it?"

Though she didn't show it, Inara acquired a new emotion: anger. She remained dead still in her tracks and tried to count to ten to calm herself down. With a jagged exhale, and a futile attempt to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, she made her way over toward the captain, supplies in her arms.

"One would assume," she began, huffily sitting in a chair adjacent to the captain, "generally speaking, of course, that someone in your position would be more grateful toward the person offering their help instead of behaving like an unrelenting _hundan_. Now let me see your face."

Mal watched as Inara came at him with a warm cloth. He turned away, not particularly relishing the idea of being coddled or touched, let alone being in such close proximity to this woman. Even at this distance, he could detect the faint tang of her spiced perfume. And when she touched his face earlier it caused his stomach an unpleasant plummeting sensation that didn't necessarily hurt, but unsettled some. It was strange having someone so noticeably . . . _feminine_ on his ship. Not distracting by any means, but unnerving all the same. As a rule of thumb, he wasn't too keen on bein' unnerved or unsettled none.

"Quit it, Inara," he demanded, subtly trying to put distance between the two of 'em. "Stop pokin' and proddin' me. I'm fine; really, it's just a scratch. Never felt better."

At this declaration, Inara could barely refrain from rolling her eyes. Yet, somehow she managed, though her restraint only went so far. "Don't be ridiculous," she chastised tartly, clicking her tongue in a motherly fashion. "You're bleeding. Quite profusely, I might add."

Mal gritted his teeth, ignoring the dull thud it caused his head. He pulled the grease laden cloth he usually used for cleaning his guns out of his back pocket and pressed it against his nose to staunch the flow of blood. "Well, in case that pretty heada' yours needs jogging, it was your elbow that caused the bleedin' in the first place," he accused darkly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added in a much lighter tone, "And bein' called a '_hundan_' ain't exactly givin' my ego that warm, fuzzy feeling."

Inara glanced down at the geometric patterns on her dress in an attempt to hide the faint flush on her cheeks. It was ridiculous, she knew, because the captain obviously made the comment haphazardly, and there was little to no weight behind it. She ignored the lapse in her training, and despite herself, managed a small smile at the captain's attempted joke. "There's a reason I ask you, Captain, to knock before entering," she reminded him, with just a hint of smugness in her tone. She grabbed the oily rag from him and replaced it with one of her silk handkerchiefs. Mal only barely frowned.

"So you make a habit of elbowin' folk frequent enough it warrants legislation to match yer violent tendencies?" he asked incredulously. A part of him felt amused. The other part felt threatened and downright scared to the very soles of his boots. "I don't take too kindly to members of my crew being threatened, so if you have somethin' to settle, I'd—"

"Don't be so dramatic," Inara admonished with an eye roll, "and hold still—" She moved her chair closer and gripped his chin gently, tilting his head so the cut on his brow could have the optimal amount of light. She felt his face tense, but out of concern that he might flee and not seek treatment, she kept it to herself. "—this might hurt a bit."

He wished he could say that although Inara's statement held some truth, he barely felt it because his senses were all too aware of how close Inara was and how her knee lightly brushed his, or even how her fingers left electric jolts where they touched his face. And if he were a more poetical man with a lot of time to pick out the fanciful words needed to describe his feelin's and such, he would have. He wished he could say that, he really did, but as it were his senses didn't pick up on any of that and could only focus on how much excruciating pain he was in. _Gorramit_, that hurt!

"Son of a _bitch_! What are you trying to do to me, woman?" he demanded. "Take my whole gorram face off?"

"Firstly," Inara informed him with a frown, taking umbrage at the way he said '_woman_,' "don't ever refer to me as that again, and secondly," she added dryly, "it doesn't hurt nearly that badly. Don't be so childish."

The captain looked outraged, and if Inara was not mistaken, slightly hurt. " '_Childish_?'" he repeated angrily, "I—"

"Relax." She pressed a different cloth to the cut on his brow. Although the pain didn't go away, it was dulled some, and at least the throbbing had disappeared completely. Through the eye that wasn't blocked by her arm, he could see she was smiling at him. "I was only teasing, Captain. Does that feel any better?"

For a fleeting moment, Mal was speechless. It might have had something to do with her smile—it was a nice smile, he admitted objectively and begrudgingly—or the minor relief of pain, but in blunt honesty, he was pretty sure it had somethin' to do with the discovery of Inara Serra's sense of humor. Part of his mouth quirked upward, though he hadn't meant for it to.

"That it does," he answered her. He held still as she applied a bandage on his cut. By this time, his nose had, thankfully, stopped bleeding, though just to be safe he was going to check in with the doc later. "This all terribly amusing for you then?" he wondered. "Me suffering from unimaginable amounts of pain?"

"Mildly so, Captain, yes." Inara smoothed all the ridges on the bandage by running her index finger over it lightly. "You should be fine now," she assured him, moving all of her supplies onto the small, circular table in front of the couch. She could barely refrain from laughing.

Taking that as his queue and permission to leave, Mal got up from the couch as fast as he was able and made his way to the shuttle's entrance. He wanted in the worst way to remain frosty, but somethin' about the way Inara seemed to be struggling—for his benefit—to contain her laughter made his mouth twitch into somethin' wholly similar to a smile.

"It's Mal, by the way," he reminded her before he stepped out of her shuttle, his fingers gripping the door frame.

Inara frowned slightly. "Pardon?"

He repeated himself. "You can call me Mal."

"Oh." For a moment, she had half expected him to throw her off of his ship for laughing at him. This was progress. "As you wish, Capt—I mean, Mal."

He nodded, content that all he had meant to say had been said. Then he remembered he never actually thanked her for fixin' his wounds, though it hadn't been necessary in the least bit. Still, she had been gracious to do it in the first place. It'd be proper to thank her for going to the (unnecessary) trouble of helping him, he realized, but that meant he owed her somethin'. As a general matter of speaking, he didn't particularly like owing people somethin'. Especially people like Inara.

He swallowed, trying desperately to put his feelings regarding the matter out of his thoughts. "I, uh . . ." He nervously scuffed the toe of his boot on the rug which rested in front of the shuttle door. ". . . thanks for . . . well, you know, h—"

Inara stood, a pleasant, understanding smile stretched across her face. "You're welcome, Mal."

As Mal left the shuttle, he couldn't help feeling that maybe he didn't hate Inara Serra nearly as much as he thought he did. She was okay. For an Alliance sympathizing whore, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**TG/N:** There really are no words, no excuses for why this next chapter took so long to update except for lack of inspiration, which we all no is borderline code for _laziness_. Either way, here we are!

_iii. that one time in a Union friendly bar on Unification Day_

"Would you—" He stopped fidgeting all together and huffed loudly, as if trying to get rid of his murderous rage at once. "—_Quit callin' me that_!"

"What?" Inara asked innocently. Then, not so innocently, "_Petty thief_?"

He rolled his eyes. _Ai ya_, each minute past brought him dangerously close to shootin' her. Or . . . well, he _would_ get to shootin' her, soon as his hands weren't all tied up. 'Course, it'd make things a helluva lot easier if the rest of him weren't tied up, too.

"Yes, _that_. It don't even make a lick'a sense given this particular context." Then again, it'd make things a helluva lot easier if Inara weren't tied up with him.

"'_Context_?'" He could feel her head movin' behind his, as if she were tryin' to make direct eye contact. Y'know, so her unprofessional sneer could make its full impact. "Oh, you mean visiting an Alliance friendly bar on Unification Day, with the sole intent of acting like a _kewu de lao baojun_ and engaging in an all-out tavern brawl? Is that the barbarous _context_ you are referring to?—"

Once again, Mal let out an emphatic, "Yes!" but Inara continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"—Because if so, than never before has 'petty' been so succinct in describing your ventures, _Captain_."

He hated the way she said 'Captain," all haughty and 'I-told-ya-so'-like. Gave him the same unpleasant sinking feeling he'd get as a kid whenever his Mama'd catch him in a white lie that'd somehow become this unfathomable mess of cream colored deceptions and half truths. Same as back then, he could feel the tips of his ears burn. Anger and embarrassment were both prime candidates as to why. Judging by his itchy trigger finger and harshed calm, Mal leaned toward anger.

"Ain't nothin' _petty_," he spat through gritted teeth, "'bout havin' an honest drink among friends."

"You don't have any friends—"

Mal rolled his eyes. "Oh, ha. _Ha_."

"—that are Alliance sympathizers," Inara finished, sounding annoyed at the interruption.

"That ain't so," Mal countered, sounding more defensive than he had planned on. His jaw began throbbing somethin' fierce. "What about you? I let you take refuge on my boat, didn't I?"

"If by 'refuge' you mean 'paying tenant,' then, yes," she amended, a faint hint of somethin' Mal couldn't pick up on in her tone, "but I could hardly be considered your friend. You've uttered one too many '_whore_' cracks for that epithet to ever accurately describe our . . . relationship."

Ah, there it was on that last word: _disgust_. Mal picked up on that tone right away. Rather than let it get to 'im, he admitted as calmly as he was able, given his internal rage, "Point taken. But you can at least give me the 'honest' part."

It mighta just been the hustle'n bustle of town comin' in through the small, barred window of their cell, Mal conceded, but he could'a sworn he heard Inara snort, all undignified like. "There was nothing _honest_ about it," she observed flatly. It was the same tone of voice Mal was usually on the receivin' end of. "You punched the man!"

"_He started it!_" Mal blurted.

Inara laughed humorlessly. "Ah, yes. And that excuse sounded just as dignified when you shouted it at the Sheriff after he locked us in here." She tried to move into a more comfortable position, but doing so caused Mal to holler in objection. "Do you have any idea what the Guild will say now that I have an arrest on my record?"

Without skipping a beat, Mal responded, "That whatever you did to warrant it was probably manly and impulsive?"

He could feel her annoyed sigh travel through her whole body. "_Jen mei nai-shing duh fwo-tzoo_, you're insufferable."

Despite his own crotchety-ness, Mal found amusement in seeing her feathers ruffled. Weren't often she slipped up—as far as her Companion training was concerned—but he took a distinct pride in knowing that most of those slip ups could be attributed to him. If there was one thing he did well, 'sides _petty thievery_, of course, it was annoying the ever loving _go-se_ outta people.

"If I'm so '_insufferable,'_ riddle me this, Inara," he demanded, genuinely curious as to how she'd respond, "why'd you feel it necessary to fool that _hundan_ into thinkin' you were my wife?"

For the first time in the past hour or so, Inara fell silent. _Ha_, Mal thought, a mite pleased with himself, _she's speechless!_ Served her right, actin' all high'n mighty all the time, like she was better'n everybody else. Always tellin' him how to get his affairs in order, stickin' her nose where it had no business being. Truly, she was Alliance bred, through and through. That thought, if nothing else, served only to incite in him a peculiar mix of anger and disappointment.

Stranger still was the way his nerves got more'n more skittish the longer she kept quiet. He wondered if maybe she was embarrassed over the whole ordeal. Admittedly, his own mind'd been replaying through the whole thing a number of times. Back at the bar, as was his usual, Mal had been trading certain words with an Alliance-friendly patron, who had proven to be on the tetchy side without much provocation. Zoe and Jayne were strategically positioned in the background, servin' as backup if he needed it, but right before he could get to the part where he revealed he'd proudly fought for the Independents, Inara'd sidled up to him, planting a kiss on his temple. He'd been so startled, he nearly fell off his barstool. She flashed him a smile before introducing herself to the _hundan_—the very same one he had every intention of beating the tar out of—as his wife. As if that weren't enough, she proceeded to slip her silk-clad arm into his own before makin' up some excuse for why he needed to leave the bar with her—some such about going into town for somethin' decidedly unmanly.

Didn't matter, though. Honestly, he had been halfway tempted to put his pride to the side and do whatever she asked. It was hard focusing on a decade worth of deeply ingrained war wounds when someone like Inara was standing so gorram close. The spot she had kissed near his temple still burned from the brand of her lips, and her touching his arm weren't helping matters none. However, just as he had made a foggy decision to go along with whatever hair-brained scheme she'd come up with, the _bun tyen-shung duh ee-dway-ro_ made a lewd comment under his breath about her. So it was then that Mal decided punchin' the guy's lights out was really his way of giving back to the kindly townsfolk of this particular backwater planet.

"Your conversation with him was wandering into a decidedly violent direction," came Inara's carefully crafted response, startling him out of his thoughts. "Given _your_ penchant for tavern brawls and _his_ unsightly facial scars, I foolishly thought that if someone of my gentle and civilized nature inserted herself in the middle, the tension would diffuse from the situation."

Now, it was Mal's turn to snort, all undignified like. "'_Gentle and civilized nature_?'" he repeated incredulously. "If I recall properly, and I do, you hit him over the head with a _bottle of whiskey_."

Inara huffed, and he took great pleasure picturin' her face with red splotches of embarrassment and anger. If the Guild took umbrage with one measly arrest record, he wondered how they'd feel about an assault and battery charge as well. "He was attempting to _strangle_ you, Mal!" she fired back, her tone almost treacherous. "Though it may come as a surprise, as much as we bicker, I don't cherish the idea of harm befalling you." She sighed heavily. "I was just trying to help."

"_Well_ . . ." Mal found himself unable to come up with an appropriate end for that sentence, thrown off guard by her explanation. Gorram woman turned him about. ". . . _don't!_" he finally settled on, allowing his pride to make an unexpected return. "I can handle myself well enough."

"_Clearly_," Inara agreed dryly, leaving enough of an emphasis in her speech to let him know she was referring to their current imprisonment.

Unable to keep his temper in check any longer, Mal suddenly lost it. "I managed awful well for myself long before you and your '_help_' stepped foot on my boat. Y'know what your problem is, Inara?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low, his brows furrowed. "You think you know what's best for folk, and you have no qualms about tellin' 'em otherwise, regardless of whether or not they're interested. Just like the Alliance."

"Oh, is that all?" Inara asked, her tone flat, her pitch a note or two higher. He was suddenly reminded of an unstable stick of dynamite. "Because all this time I thought my _problem_ was with a hypocritical Captain who espouses the freedom to live life as one pleases; yet, at every turn he critiques the life choices that others have opted for, whether it be their political affiliation, or their profession of choice. But perhaps you're right, _Captain_." Her lament sounded more like the lash of a silver tongue. "Perhaps my problem lies with whom I choose to associate with politically. But at least the Alliance doesn't _hide_ behind a smokescreen of espoused virtues and doctrine," she concluded quietly, her words emblazoned in Mal's mind.

Before he could conjure some sort of response to her impassioned defense, they were interrupted by the sound of metal hitting metal some two cells down. Out of habit, Inara jerked in the direction of the noise, which caused Mal to bellow out in discomfort. She offered up a less than sincere apology.

"What the hell was that?" he wondered out loud, trying to crane his neck in such a way he could peer 'round the barred cell door.

"How would I know?" Inara snapped sarcastically. "You're the one who's facing the _door_."

"_Gorramit_, I—"

"Well, ain't this just the shiniest thing you ever seen, Wash!" Kaylee exclaimed from the other side of their cell door. To her left stood their pilot, and even his colorful garb was a welcome sight. Kaylee, on the other hand, was wearin' a mighty big grin on her face, and at the sight of it, Mal felt the closest to smiling that he had in the past few hours. At the sound of her voice, Mal could feel Inara's whole body relax.

"Yes," Wash offered hesitantly as if he needed some more convincing about the 'shiny' aspect of the situation before them. "It's all so . . . _charming_. What with the shouting and the animosity, oooh, and the threats."

At this, Mal rolled his eyes. "Just shut up, and get us outta here," he demanded over the sounds of Inara's laughter. It was good to hear her laugh again. Though unlikely, he harbored some small hope that she wasn't angry with him anymore.

"Relax, Cap'n," Kaylee warned. "No need to get all ornery. We're here to bail you out."

"With what money, exactly?" he asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Well, let's just say that none of us will be retiring any time soon," Wash admitted somewhat sadly. With a tilt of his head, he further acknowledged, "Or . . . flying much at all, really."

_That's what I was afraid of_, Mal thought as he watched the prison guard unlock their cell door. With a metal _clang_, the guard opened the cell and came over to remove the bindings from both he and Inara. The moment she was free, Inara rushed at Kaylee, without giving Mal a second glance.

"Oh, _mei mei_," she cried, wrapping her arms around her friend tightly, "I have never been so happy to see you." At the sound of Wash's not so subtle throat clearing, she laughed and amended, "And, of course, you, too, Wash!"

Wash gave a mock bow and proceeded to ramble on nonsensically. "Thank you, thank you. I would like to thank my Lamby Toes, without whom this rescue mission would not have been possible. It was through the brave and selfless use of her beautiful, yet deadly Amazonian fists and . . . well, other parts on her person that she successfully—"

Mal tuned him out as he made his way over to Inara and Kaylee. Admittedly, he possessed a certain amount of pride that some'd say faulted on the stubborn side, but after their spat, Mal was convinced he owed Inara some kind of apology. After all, she _did_ hit a guy over the head with a full bottle of whiskey in a misguided attempt to protect him, possibly sacrificing her reputation in the process. The least he could do, all things considered, was offer up two itty, bitty words.

"Inara, I—"

She cut him off brusquely as she and Kaylee linked arms. "We'll meet you back on the ship, Captain."

_Gorram woman's gonna be the death of me_, he thought woefully as he stared after the two of them. Shoulders sunk, he rubbed at his wrists where the bindings had dug in and drew in air through his teeth. Skin was still a mite tender.

". . . and, finally, I'd like to thank Sarah, my triceratops cockpit ornament," Wash faded back in again.

Not an ounce of patience left, Mal frowned and stalked off. "_Rung tse song di chang dai wuo tzo. _If you don't stop flappin' that gaping hole in your head you call a mouth, I will shut it for you, little man."

Wash laughed nervously and cleared his throat. "There's been a correction. . . . and finally, I'd like to thank my shiny and wonderful Captain, who so generously and selflessly refrained from inflicting any physical harm to me or the gaping hole in my head I call a mouth."


End file.
